


You Don't Come Around Anymore (But I Know The Reason Why)

by geckoholic



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Community: gameofcards, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1979865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The two of them together, that was like spraying gasoline into a flame and hoping no one gets burned.</em>
</p><p>In which Clint is an idiot, Jess is pissed but still cares, and the two of them somehow end up having quick post-breakup sex in an Avengers Tower bathroom. Set after they broke up in Hawkeye but before they fly out to space in Avengers Assemble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Don't Come Around Anymore (But I Know The Reason Why)

**Author's Note:**

> For the matchmaker challenge at [Game of Cards](http://gameofcards.livejournal.com/). The randomizer was awfully kind to me for that one. It gave me two pairings I was interested in writing, but in the end this came easier to me and the other fic got postponed.
> 
> Beta'd by totallybalanced, thank youuuuu! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Title is taken from "Stay" by Everlast.

Their breakup isn't a surprise to anyone. Not even Jess herself, if she's honest. The two of them together, that was like spraying gasoline into a flame and hoping no one gets burned. Her trust issues, his commitment issues – recipe for disaster. 

And yet, she didn't expect him to cheat, to go that far. Sure, it's not like they ever sat down to define what it was they had, not really, but she thought there was mutual understanding that they had _something_. Enough of a thing to not got ahead and bang the next random girl that throws him a come-hither look, in any case. 

It's not part of her makeup to sit around and mope. There's no girl talk sessions – not like she's got anyone to do that with, anyway, after Carol lost her memory – and no ice cream binges at midnight. The beatings she doles out to bad guys get a little more severe for a while there, true and tried coping mechanism, but that's it. She loved, she lost, and in hindsight she kind of didn't expect anything else. People leaving her, yeah, that's hardly a first. Didn't break her before, won't break her this time. 

Although it would probably be easier if they didn't work together. Don't shit where you eat and all. 

 

*** 

 

Clint's infuriating. He already was before he stuck his dick into some mafia skank while Jess thought they were _exclusive_. She knew that before she started dating him. Hell, it might even have been part of why she started dating him, her mind is coded to sabotage her like that. He's reckless. He's liable to ignore his own vulnerability to the point of obvious stupidity. The thing that always got her, though, is that he usually does that to save others – even those who don't need saving, not by him – and that he's pretty much the most selfless person Jess ever met. Clint's good people, all in all. 

He just wraps that up in thick layers of emotionally unavailable, thick-headed, cheating asshole. 

They've been out to fight a couple of supersized thugs, hopped up on some evil designer drug and thinking they owned the city. Pretty easy, a standard Tuesday night gig as far as avengering goes, but Clint threw himself into it like he was fighting the end of the world. If she didn't know better she'd think he was angling to get hurt. Then again, it's not like she really knows him. She thought she did. But. It's entirely possible that there's no one around who really does anymore. 

Long story short, while everyone else got their superpowered asses out of there with hardly a scrap, Clint's not doing so good. He's still in his getup, with his arm gingerly wrapped around his middle and a tell-tale drag to his gait, which leads her to think that he may have cracked something. Jess isn't too familiar with the sensation of broken bones – at least not those that stay broken long enough to heal naturally – but she watched Clint deal with them often enough to recognize the signs. 

She should ignore him. Leave him alone. He sure won't ask for her help, and she's not obligated to give it anymore. And yet... 

“You alright?” she asks while passing him in the hallway, nonchalantly, like she doesn't really care. 

He sees right through it. Stops dead and half-turns, face scrunching up in pain when that movement jars his ribcage, and lies right to her face. “Sure. 'course I am. Just sticking around for Tony's shitty coffee.” 

She stares at him. He stares back, eyebrows raised. It'd be challenging, but there's too much exhaustion painted in every line of is face for that, so it only works to emphasize how worn out he seems. 

Of course she gives in. She'll hate herself for it later, but no matter what he did, how he trampled all over her heart, she cared for him too damn much to simply turn it off. “You're crappy liar, did anyone ever tell you that?”

“You did, couple of times.” He huffs, and she's not sure if it's another noise of pain or supposed to be part of his answer. “It's not broken. I know how that feels. Jess, really, I'm okay.” 

That's when his body decides to snitch on him, because his nose starts to bleed before he's done talking. Now that she's paying attention to that, it also looks a little askew. Like. More than usual. His hand comes up to wipe the blood away, and yeah, no, somebody's got to take care of that even if he doesn't seem to give a shit. 

Jess takes his other hand none too gently, ignores his mumbled protests when she drags him along to the nearest bathroom. Once inside, she orders him to sit on the sink and keep still, goddammit, while she digs around for antiseptic wipes and band-aids in the cupboards. 

He apparently concluded that any argument would be futile, doesn't resist when she's found what she was looking for – Avengers Tower bathrooms come well-stocked – and turns his face this way and that for better access. He does hiss when she prods at his nose; it's definitely broken. Or maybe it never healed from the last time. 

“You're such an idiot,” she tells his cheekbones, very pointedly avoiding to look him in the eye. Which, on second thought, might be a mistake. She loves his cheekbones. 

He smiles, somewhat fondly if she doesn't misinterpret it. Which is possible; she never could read him that well. “That's another thing you pointed out to me before.” 

Falling into old habits with dizzying speed, Jess pokes him in the chest, remembering too late that the reason they're in here in the first place is that he got his fool ass hurt. Clint yelps, slumping forward, and before she knows it Jess is cradling his chin with one hand, angling it upward, inches away from her own. 

He freezes. He's looking right at her, a little bit like he's not sure if she's going to backhand him or push him away or storm out on him or anything dramatic like that, and hey, there's solid evidence that he doesn't know her too well either. Because Jess isn't nearly as smart as that. 

She leans in, not giving her common sense enough time chime in and stop her, and she kisses him. There's a terrible moment of dread in which he's not doing anything, neither pulling away nor kissing back, but then he does get with the program. Making dumb decisions has always been the one thing they saw eye to eye on. 

She is _definitely_ going to hate herself for this. 

But that'll come later. For now, she's too busy rolling up the t-shirt that passes as his costume lately, desperate to get to skin and not even caring that she might hurt him. He doesn't seem to either, because instead of stopping her he's working to open her fly, snake his hand inside and down her panties. She sucks in a breath when he gets in far enough to brush past her folds, just shallowly enough to not achieve anything besides driving her straight out of her skin with needing _more_ , so much more. But he's got a habit of getting lost in his task, not just in bed, and so it's going to be on her to move this forward. 

She drags his hand away, revels in the disappointed look on his face long enough for it to be borderline cruel before she pushes him off, using more strength than she technically needs. He cries out when she manhandles him away from the sink and hops on in his stead, not in the least bit paying attention to his injuries, but he goes along until she's got them in position. Well, sort of. Her ass is half hanging off the sink while she attempts to shimmy out of jeans and panties in one go and his stance is a little odd and paying dues to the fact that he probably can't even stand upright without hurting _somewhere_ , but it'll do. 

This is something they know, something they've always been good at, and it's surprisingly easy to fall back into it. Her hands find his belt buckle, the bulge below it, and she starts stroking through the fabric, but he drags it away. For a second or two its her who's terrified of him changing his mind, while he's got her laid out, naked from the waist down and legs spread like some kind of needy whore, in a position that'd make everyone without her powers slide right off the sink. Regret comes rushing in like a wave, making her breath come short in a bad way. She's not going to cry, but she kinda wants to, for having giving him permission to hurt her again – 

Her heart nearly skips a beat when he kisses her, his body closer than before, two fingers going right in for the kill, the way he knows she likes it. Almost too much pressure, letting up, then again. His mouth his sealed to hers, kissing her deeply, stealing her breath away for entirely different reasons. They're aligned perfectly, touching in every place possibly while he works her clit. 

Jess isn't sure if she wants to moan so loud the whole tower'll hear her or give him a good shove to the definitely-not-broken ribs. Of course he's got to do that to her now, make this all about her, selflessly, like the guy she wishes he'd been able to be for her in instances other than sex or a fight. Her mind supplies her with images of Clint and that girl, that redhead, making her wonder if he's been the same way with her, and Jess shakes her head to get rid of that thought. It's not important. Not right now. They'll sort that shit out later, or not at all, whatever, but at the moment she needs this more. Rebound fucks aren't her style – she's not above one-night-stands, certainly not, but filling the hole a breakup leaves with some nameless dick doesn't do it for her – and in all honesty, it's not like dating comes easy either. It's going to be a while until she gets to have something like this again, someone who knows her body well enough to play it like a fine-tuned instrument, so she's damn well going to enjoy it while it lasts. 

She swivels her hips on his fingers, urging him on, and he takes the hint, adds a third one and gets messy. He's alternately fucking her with them, then just stroking, brushing his thumb past her now oversensitive clit, and fuck, yes. Exactly like that. She's squirming with pleasure, panting heavily whenever he stops kissing and lets her come up for air, lightheaded and lost, clinging to him like he's the only thing keeping her together. Her forehead is pressed into the crook of his shoulder when she comes, and it's all she can do not to draw him in closer, cling to him for real, possibly crack another rib or two. Loss of control is risky, makes her lose balance when it comes to her levels of strength. She's hurt him once or twice. A little. Not too bad. Nothing that'd stand out in the landscape of cuts and bruises that calls itself Clint Barton. 

It barely registers when he moves the hand he's just had in her between their bodies. She hears his zipper go down, and she can't see, but his movements indicate that he's jerking himself off while she's still spread out underneath him, curled up close, and she shifts them just enough that she can _see_ his hand move up and down his cock in fast, rough movements. He's no delicate flower either, prefers his pleasure to be ripped from him rather than coddled and teased, much like she does. His groans sound too loud, as close as they are, like he's moaning directly into her ear. Maybe he is. Maybe it's intentional. She watches as he brings himself off, hips stuttering forward as he comes into his own hand, careful not to spill on either of their clothes. It's all wrong, too controlled, too mechanical. 

And then it clicks, receding arousal making room for that common sense she tried so hard to ignore before. This doesn't belong to her anymore. He doesn't. Never did, really. 

She shoves him off none too gently, and he looks at her with questions in his eyes, sex stupid still. Yet, there's something more – not quite hope, she's not enough of a fool to think he wants her back – and it makes her wants to cry and scream and ask him _why_. Instead she props herself up, pushes him the rest out of the way, and leaves without even a glance back. Slowly. Not running. 

Because running away from him, here, now, after everything, would somehow be too much.


End file.
